


Fic request compilation round 2

by mtjester



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Multi, Tags listed in author notes according to fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 21:42:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3870754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtjester/pseuds/mtjester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another compilation of fic requests given to me on tumblr, featuring different ships and AUs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Karkat&Nepeta, radio show

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LeafyWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeafyWrites/gifts), [beavisandbuttheadyaoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beavisandbuttheadyaoi/gifts), [NivQ87](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NivQ87/gifts), [the-nothing-maker](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=the-nothing-maker), [silverpond](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=silverpond).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Nepeta and Karkat start a radio show called The Shipping Wall

Kanaya turned up the radio to drown out Dave’s metaphor-ladened monologue as the last song of the hour faded out. “It’s starting,” she said. Dave stopped talking mid-sentence, and both he and Rose turned their attention to the radio. A cheerful and familiar voice voice chirped through the speakers.

“Hello, efurybody! Nepeta here!”

“And Karkat.”

“And you’re listening tooooooooo–!”

Karkat murmured something irritated beneath his breath before finishing with, “The Shipping Wall.” 

“He sounds nervous,” Rose commented as Karkat and Nepeta settled a whispered dispute over the sound of a peppy theme jiggle.

“He’ll get into it when he starts talking,” Kanaya said. “At least Nepeta seems to be enjoying herself.”

“Now that we got that little bit of idiocy out of the way,” Karkat began, “let’s do a real introduction. To keep it short, we’re here to share our inexhaustible wisdom on all things romance for the thick fucks out there who can’t figure out how to seduce anything other than their own hand.”

“AND to share all the juicy clawsnip on who’s dating who!”

“’Clawsnip?’” Karkat repeated, his voice dropping to an almost whisper. “Nepeta, what did we _just_ say about cat puns, literally two minutes ago?”

“Sorry, I furgot,” Nepeta whispered back. Rose snorted into her hand.

“Whatever, it doesn’t fucking matter,” Karkat said, his voice jumping in volume.

“Right! It doesn’t! Because we’re here to talk about shipping!”

“Shipping! Right. Let’s get this wreck of a talk show going before everyone shuts off their listening devices in disgust.”

“Today we’re going to be talking about black romance,” Nepeta said, and the soft shuffling of papers could be heard behind her voice. 

“According to my immaculate and indisputably credible research, hand gathered over the course of literally my entire fucking life,” Karkat said, “maintaining a healthy kismesissitude is a subtle and delicate artform that some of you bulgegropes out there can’t begin to comprehend, let alone competently perform.”

“And that’s why we’re here! To offer some furiendly advice.”

“Yeah. ‘Friendly’ advice. For starters, a good first step to maintaining a healthy kismesissitude would be to not kill, cull, maim, disfigure, or otherwise physically, mentally, or emotionally traumatize your kismesis. Really, what the fuck is wrong with you people that I have to actually get on the fucking radio and issue a public service announcement to make this clear?”

“What he means is that even though you hate each other, you need to respect each other! Right, Karkat?” Those last words were audibly strained, and Karkat huffed into his microphone.

“Right. Yeah.”

“Besides, that sort of hate only ends in catastrophe! There are much better ways to bond with your kismesis.”

“The possibilities are almost endless for anyone with any grain of creativity and half a working think pan. Hate dates can include battles of wit, surprise outings to venues or activities your partner detests, mercilessly exploiting your partner’s pet peeves, leaving your partner patronizing notes before major social or professional events, surpassing your partner in skills they value or practice regularly–”

“–and roleplaying!”

“…Preferably of the variety that doesn’t end with either of you dead or irreparably wounded.”

“Obviously.”

“It’s not obvious.”

“Anyway! Um…Karkat! How about you tell us about your ideal hate date!”

A brief but intense whispered exchange passed between them, and Karkat cleared his throat. “Right, my ideal hate date. Well, first of all, the asshole would probably arrive several minutes late–not late enough to actually disrupt any important plans but just enough to piss me off–and he would probably have a stupid fucking grin on his face when he finally showed up like he had no clue he was even late in the first place. I would tear him a new waste chute for wasting my valuable time–verbally, not literally–and he would probably brush off all my perfectly legitimate complaints without offering any excuses for his tactless behavior. Then, he would take me to some activity he knows I enjoy, because you should know your kismesis just as well as you know your matesprit–write that down, people, because it’s _important_ –but in such a way that I remain irritated throughout the entire night. Not enough to ruin anything, because then what’s even the fucking point, but just enough to keep my eternal, undying hatred for him boiling beneath my skin, so that when I fall asleep at dawn my passionate loathing of his every action settles into the memory and makes it meaningful for the rest of my pathetic existence.”

There was a small pause. “What?” Karkat hissed beneath his breath, barely audible through the speakers.

“Who are you talking about?” Nepeta whispered.

“What do you mean, ‘who?’”

“You were talking about somebody just then. I didn’t know you have a kismesis!”

“No, I was just–it was hypothetical, you shameless scandalmonger. Fucking–we’re in the middle of something right now!”

After another beat, Nepeta’s voice rose to a normal volume. “And there you have it!” she said, a note of glee trilling beneath the words. “Think about that next time you’re purrsuing a black relationship with a special somebody. We’ll have more on the subject next time! I’m Nepeta.”

“And I’m Karkat. This was the first and worst episode of The Shipping Wall.”

As the theme jingle concluded the show, Kanaya reached over to turn off the radio. She looked over her shoulder at Rose and Dave. “I think it went well,” Dave said, and Rose stifled a laugh.


	2. Aradia&Dave, accidental demon summoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: In honor of Aradia April, Aradia with "oops i accidentally summoned a demon au" ?

You don’t know why your mom has all these strange books, or why she hid them away in an old, dusty trunk in the attic. If she was trying to keep them a secret from you, she should have known better–old and dusty is your aesthetic. You feel the thrill of the find as you dig through the trunk’s contents, wiping years’ worth of grime off of the covers. You stack any books that look interesting neatly beside you. You’ve almost dug your way to the bottom when a tome bound in dark red leather catches your eye.

You turn the heavy volume over in your hands, inspecting the binding. Like all the others, its exterior has dulled with age, but a swipe of your palm seems to revitalize it. The leather, cleared of dust, seems to grow a shade brighter, almost gleaming in the dull light of the old glass lightbulb. On the front cover is a large brass gear. You rub your thumb over the surface. It almost feels warm.

You let the book fall open on your lap. Diagrams, images, and odd ramblings cover the page. You read the first sentence you see and snort. “They wait for he who would drop it like it’s hot whilst the pimp’s in the crib?” you read out loud and laugh. “No wonder it’s still so nice. It’s just made to look old.” You close the book and set it on top of the others. The light overhead flickers.

“Sup.”

You jump and whip around, bumping into your stack of books and spilling them across the floor. Behind you is a teenager in a pair of soft red pajamas and aviator shades. He holds up a hand in greeting. “The wicked and powerful Dave Strider, at your service.”

You stare at him. You can’t tell if he’s staring back at you behind his shades, and he maintains his well-practiced poker face, waiting for your response. Your fluttering heartbeat settles as you examine him more closely. His skin is so pale that it looks like marble, and like marble it seems to glisten in the soft light. His hair is shockingly white, like clouds or snow. Your calming heart skips a beat when you notice the smallest pair of horns peeking out from beneath his bangs. “Who are you?” you ask, a bud of anticipation blooming in your chest.

“The wicked and powerful Dave Strider,” he repeats. “As in the infamous demon from the darkest of human fables. The Lord of Time and Death.” He waits for some sign of recognition to pass across your face. It doesn’t. “…Did you even read the book, or…? C’mon, you have to have heard something.”

You shake your head. “Sorry,” you say, but you’re not really.

He sighs. “Whatever, who gives a fuck about all that,” he says. He sweeps his arms apart as if to present himself. “All you need to know is that I’m a demon and you just summoned me to do your wicked doing, whatever the hell that is to you. So lay it on me. Your wish is my command. I’m here to drop it like it’s hot and you, Miss…?”

“Aradia,” you supply.

“Aradia, you are the pimp in this crib. Revel in it, cuz this chance doesn’t come around every day.”

You soak in his introduction, eyes glued to the tiny horns on his forehead, and your smile widens into a broad grin.


	3. Dirk/Tavros, angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Angel au: dirk has a near death experience and brings back tavros?

Light floods through your eyelids as they slowly crack open. Your head feels thick, like the cavity inside is filled with cotton, and all your limbs are too heavy. Through the fuzz dulling your senses, you can hear a voice saying something to you. Your name. Dirk. Shades and colors sharpen as your eyes adjust to the light, and you groan.

You’re in a hospital. The window beside you is open, and judging by the intensity of the sunlight streaming through, it’s midday. A light breeze plays through some flowers on your bedside table, spilling a pleasant floral aroma over your bed. You can immediately tell that you’ve been here a while.

“Dude,” Dave says, and you finally turn your attention to him. He keeps his face steady, but you know he’s worried. You release a slow sigh.

“Where are my shades?” you ask. Tension eases from his shoulders. He reaches into his pockets and draws them out. The lenses are cracked.

“Sorry,” he says as he passes them to you. You hold down a grimace and adjust them on your face anyway. In true Dave Strider style, he starts to ramble. “They broke when you hit the ground. No kidding, bro, if cracked shades are the worst that comes out of all this, you’re a lucky bastard. You fell like five stories. I fucking ran down those stairs, which we all know is a bad idea, given the nature of stairs and how many times we’ve been warned about them, but goddamn, I was sure I would find you splattered across the whole block when I got down there. Pulverized Dirk Strider bits clinging to the bricks and dripping from the lamp posts. I could hardly believe you were still breathing, let alone capable of recovery. What the fuck, dude. What the actual fuck.”

The memory hits you like a truck, which is probably a close approximation to the feeling of your body slamming against the ground. You and Dave were strifing on the roof, and you lost your footing. For a second, you can feel the shock, the fear, and your mind reels. You close your eyes and breathe.

“You okay, bro?”

You inhale through your nose and murmur, “Get me some water.”

“I can get it.” You don’t recognize the voice, and you open your eyes enough to see someone stand from a chair at the end of your bed and slip out the door. You slide your pupils to Dave, trying not to move your head to soften your oncoming headache.

“He’s been here the whole time,” Dave says as though he can sense your confusion. “He says he knows you. I’ve never seen him before. But hey, he raps, so he can’t be bad news, right?”

The mystery guy slips back in, and you try to get a good look at him. Dark skin, soft eyes, and a pleasantly rustled mohawk swept back along his scalp. He comes to stand next to Dave and offers you a glass of water with a friendly smile. You don’t know him. But you do. You’re too perplexed to do anything but lean your head forward so he can tip some water into your mouth. It dribbles down your chin, but you feel a strange warmth follow the cool liquid down your throat. Your headache immediately subsides. In fact, your whole body feels a ton lighter.

“Thanks,” you say, for lack of a better response. After a second, you try sitting up. Your body doesn’t fight you. You feel pretty decent, actually.

“Do you, uh…do you remember me?” he asks. He almost seems as confused as you are. You narrow your eyes and examine the bronze crystals of his irises. In a flash, you do remember.

You hit the ground, and as if the impact forced your soul straight from your body, you were surrounded in nothingness. A white glow engulfed you, and you saw into eternity, heaven or nirvana or jannah or whatever it is that humans call the paradise in the afterlife, and, fuck, if you had the language to describe the feeling–if feeling is the word to call it–you would spend your life putting it on paper. But you don’t think the right words exist, so that’s that. And you saw him there. This guy–this angel. You saw him, you grabbed him, and you dragged him back to earth with you because no ethereal paradise could convince you to leave your kid brother alone in the world but you still wanted a part of it. Maybe you’re selfish that way.

As if he knows what you’re thinking, he smiles at you. “Your recovery was really hard on you, so maybe you shouldn’t be sitting up yet,” he says. Like he can’t use his heavenly powers to speed shit along. Which is no doubt something he’s been doing anyway.

“Yeah, bro. Take it easy for once,” Dave says. You comply and lay back down. You keep the glass of water in your hand.

“Tavros,” you say. You don’t know where the name came from, but it feels right. He nods, grinning. The corner of your lip curls up into a tiny smirk. “So…you rap?”

His eyes light up, and you know you grabbed the right angel.


	4. Terezi<>Tavros, frog gathering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Terezi decides to help Tavros by giving him something Vriska-free and useful to do during the game: help Karkat and Kanaya breed the Genesis Frog. Communing will make frog hunting so much easier, and it'll keep him awake. They save enough time to find the last frog (bonus points: it has something to do with the frog puzzle Tavros had been doing) and Bilious Slick is healthy. Doomed timeline or AU? Up to you. Pale Tavrezi.

You keep an eye on Tavros as he hovers across the waterlogged terrain of Kanaya’s land, communing with frogs to bring them to the surface of the mud. Kanaya and Karkat have just recently stoked the forge, ridding the planet of the flood that covered most of its surface, and frog hunting is well underway. Nobody argued when you suggested Tavros join Karkat and Kanaya in their frog breeding adventures. He can commune with animals, so why would they? According to plan, everyone took the suggestion at face value. Except for Vriska. You can tell that she has some suspicions about your real objective, but you make sure to skirt around the issue whenever she tries to chat to you about it. You distract her instead with a constant flow of dares and bets that strike at the heart of her ego. She never passes up a chance to show off.

You try not to seem too obvious about your concern for Tavros. You hang back with Karkat and make fun of him for struggling in the mud. You’re struggling, too, but you can pretend you’re not because you don’t have to chase around frogs. Lucky for you, none of you wander too far from Tavros, since he’s playing the pied piper of frogs for all of you. No need for you to work out any special strategies. While Kanaya and Karkat laden their arms full of slimy amphibians, you stand to the side and cackle.

“If you’re not going to do anything but leer at us like a smug overlord, go be useful somewhere else,” Karkat snaps at you. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

Before you can answer, you hear the soft whir of Tavros’s flying machine settle in beside you. “Oh, I have something that maybe you can be helpful with,” Tavros says. “Since you’re clever and generally competent at things like puzzles and mind-related games.”

You turn to him. “What do you have in mind?” you say, but you’re already invested.

“Well, uh, you see, there was this puzzle, on my planet, involving frogs that were not unlike these frogs, but I never got to finish it because Vriska thought it was boring, so–”

“Sounds like fun to me!” you say, and you pull yourself up onto his flying machine. Partially to get out of the mud, and partially because this gives you the perfect excuse to give him your undivided attention. And you know how much he needs some undivided attention from someone who will indulge him. Of course Vriska thought his puzzle was boring. You won’t. Sure enough, you can smell him grin.

“Tavros, make sure to remember about the frogs,” Kanaya says.

“I will,” he says, “but I think this puzzle is important, too, since it’s also frog related.”

You shrug. Given all the evidence, you believe he’s right. You wouldn’t be surprised if the puzzle had something to do with this frog breeding business, and you can rationalize spending time thinking about it. But an itch in your mind tells you that you do in fact have something else you should be doing. Your wits could be put to better use on Derse, exiling important figures before the final battle. You know you should be there. But you want to help Tavros with his puzzle. You want to make sure he feels useful and happy, away from Vriska and anyone else who puts him down. You want to help him find the Tavros he was before the accident, the one who could go on adventures with people who cared about him. You know you’re the only one who can help him remember that part of himself, with Aradia the way she is now. And, if you’re honest with yourself, you want that part of yourself back, too. Maybe it’s not what you should be doing, but working on a puzzle with Tavros somehow feels far more important to you than anything else.


	5. Rose&Jade, squiddles talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: My friend came up with this neat Squiddle headcanon! Rose and Jade bond over it on a message board, and Rose gets progressively freaked out that Jade doesn't pick up on how inappropriate the show really is, what with the on screen deaths, paranoia fuel, and Jade being her unusually socialized self. She later realizes that the reason she has a hard time meeting other people that like the show is because it only shows up as static to everyone but the kids/guardians.

\--gardenGnostic[GG]began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]\--

GG: rose!!

TT: Hello. To what do I owe this sudden and entirely unpredictable salutation?

GG: lol you already know

GG: did you watch it yet?

TT: I have, and I must say, I’m shocked.

GG: omg me too!!!

GG: who knew there was something like that in the murky brineswallows!

GG: and poor giggle tinytentacles :(

TT: Poor Giggle TinyTentacles.

TT: This is the third squiddle we’ve lost this month. I’m starting to think the show’s screenwriters would prefer we not invest ourselves in their characters.

GG: but its so hard not to!

GG: it makes you wonder whats going to happen next

GG: now that they know whats in the murky brineswallows do you think theyre going to go fight it?

TT: Frankly, at this juncture in the plot, I can hardly think to make predictions about the squiddle friends’ next step.

TT: Although I find it rather unnerving that a show about friendship and teamwork should so often involve the death of beloved characters and violent, disturbing conflict with unimaginable horrors.

GG: you think so? :O

TT: Don’t you? It seems mature for a children’s show.

GG: well i dont really know about all that

GG: its the only show i really ever watch!

GG: but i think it makes sense because whats friendship without a little bit of conflict!

TT: “A little bit of conflict.”

TT: Did we watch the same episode today, or was I dreaming when Cuddles McPlush was left to bleed to death in the acidic murk of a festering swamp?

GG: but the acid cauterized his wounds so it all ended up okay

GG: :D

TT: Well, you’re not wrong.

GG: do you really think its that bad?

TT: Let me put it this way: most shows marketed to children focus on building crucial social skills and tackling difficult life changes such as gaining new siblings, beginning new school years, or entering puberty.

GG: well its a good thing we wont need to do any of that stuff!

GG: except for maybe the puberty part hehe

TT: It anyone but you had said that, I would have brushed it off as a joke.

TT: But given your bewildering penchant for offering nonspecific information that somehow always proves to be correct, I am now experiencing a level of disquiet that may derail my entire day.

GG: oh sorry!!!

GG: i didnt mean anything by it

GG: i was just saying that maybe this show is more appropriate for us in terms of life lessons

TT: That didn’t help.

GG: sorry :(

TT: I’m going to check the show’s discussion boards to see what other people have to say about the matter.

TT: I hardly think I’m one to be oversensitive about any issue, but it is a possibility that I’m willing to embrace.

GG: ok!

GG: have you found anything

TT: No. 

TT: In fact, I have found so little as to be disconcerting.

TT: Surely a show that has managed to continue airing for several season would have enough of an audience to merit some simple online discussion?

TT: I expected an angry parent or two at the very least.

GG: well…theres probably a reason for that!

TT: And what reason would that be?

GG: who knows?

TT: I’m sure there’s someone who knows, and that person is likely not telling me for whatever reason she has to be cryptic on a regular basis.

GG: hehehe who could that be?

TT: Well, in any case, I suppose I could ask around. Perhaps some of my “IRL friends” could offer some commentary on the matter.

GG: well good luck!

\--gardenGnostic[GG]ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]\--

* * *

\--tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering gardenGnostic[GG]\--

TT: Good luck indeed.

GG: hi rose!

GG: how was your day?

TT: It went as most of my days go.

TT: Insufferably long and boring.

TT: But I did learn something I would hazard to deem valuable today, although I don’t know what it means.

GG: oh?? :0

TT: Did you know that Squiddles, despite airing every day on the same channel to a wide audience, does not actually appear on most television sets?

TT: It airs as static. Everyone I spoke with confirmed this experience, as did the channel forums, on which countless complaints have been lodged and ignored.

GG: wow

GG: that sure does sound like a mystery that needs explaining!

TT: Hmm.

TT: It sure does. And I suppose we can expect to have the mystery solved at some point in the future?

GG: maybe!

GG: mysteries do have a habit of getting solved eventually

TT: Yes. I suppose they do.

TT: In the meantime, we’ll have to limit our discussions to those who can see it.

TT: Meaning, as far as I can discern, you, me, John, and Dave.

GG: i guess so!

GG: but thats fine since youre the best to talk to anyway

TT: Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment and pretend I don’t recognize anything suspicious in the way you’ve been responding to this inquiry.

GG: hehehe sounds like a good idea to me!

\--tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering gardenGnostic[GG]\--


	6. Jane/Dave, steal a stop light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Dave and Jane decide to steal a stop light

John knocked on Dave’s door and waited for a response. Something inside his apartment fell to the floor with a loud thump, and he heard someone swear. The door clicked open seconds later.

“Jane?” John asked, taken aback. His older sister’s grin widened as she took hold of his shirt and yanked him inside.

“Guess what we just did, John!” she said, glee written over her face.

“Oh, what? You can’t tell him yet!” Dave said. “We don’t even have it put. We’re losing mad irony points revealing the spoils of our exploits before we have it properly mounted and ready for display.”

Jane snickered behind her hand, and John looked between the two of them. Dave was clearly trying to hide something behind his legs. “Okay, now you have to tell me,” he said, cocking an eyebrow.

“Oh, let’s tell him!” Jane said. Dave let out a dramatic sigh and stepped to the side.

“Is that…a stop light?”

“Yes!” Jane said.

“A real stop light?”

“Sure is, Egbert,” Dave said. “One bona fide stop light, fresh off the wires.”

“Why?”

“Well, you see–” Dave began, but Jane interrupted. 

“Can I tell the story? Please!”

Dave nodded to her. “Pull up a chair, Egbert, cuz Jane’s a storytelling magician and you’ve got one hell of a ride in store for you.”

John rolled his eyes and sat down at Dirk’s computer chair. Jane cleared her throat. “It all began earlier today, around noon. Dave and I had decided that some lunch was in order, so we went to our favorite downtown diner, where the food is cheap but not as terrible as one might think. It was the hottest day of the summer (as I’m sure you’ve noticed), and we were among the few restless souls to brave the dense, humid air so close to the sun’s zenith.”

“Yeah, I was pretty sure you were both going crazy,” John said, glancing at Dave. “I wouldn’t step foot outside until the sun went down.”

“Your loss,” Dave said. “That’s why you’re not as cool as we are.”

“Indeed!” Jane agreed with a laugh. “Every up and coming prankster knows that the best pranks can only happen in the most uncomfortable of circumstances!”

“I don’t know about that,” John said.

“And that’s why we have a stop light and you don’t,” Dave replied.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves!” Jane said. “The story only just started.”

John leaned back. “Okay, continue.”

“The two of us entered the diner, the only patrons, sweating through our clothes and practically sticking to the booth. Even after a full half hour in the air conditioning, evidence of the summer heat clung to our bodies. We ordered our food and plenty of tall beverages, and while we were finishing up our milkshakes, Dave looks around.

“’Looks like there’s no one out today,’ he said.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Oh, shoosh! No one can reproduce the meandering nonsense that comes out of your mouth sometimes.” John laughed, and Dave folded his arms in mock irritation. Jane ignored him. “Anyway, he said something along those lines. And I said, ‘Yes, you’re right! It’s a quiet day.’ I had not yet considered the possibilities, having been drained of my creativity by the heat. But not Dave, oh, no, not Dave! He turned to me with a mischievous little smirk and said, ‘So, what are we going to do to take advantage of the quiet?’”

“Again, not at all what I said!”

“And I said, shoosh! He said something along those lines. And I knew then that I had very nearly let a once in a lifetime chance slip through my fingers. We could get away with anything, as few people were out! And those who were out couldn’t be bothered to intervene should they happen to catch us.”

“So you stole a stop light,” John said.

“So we stole a stop light,” Dave confirmed with a nod. Jane groaned.

“I was getting to it!”

“But that’s the point, right? You both went out on the hottest day of the year, when all the weathermen sent out warnings for heat stroke and all sorts of other serious dangers related to heat, and you stole a stop light.”

“And we stole a stop light,” Dave said, nodding again.

“You know, I appreciate pranks and irony just as much as either of you,” John said, “but there’s no way that was worth spending any amount of time outside today.”

“Oh, it was worth it,” Dave said. “You just don’t understand delayed gratification.”

“It was definitely worth it,” Jane agreed with a grin.

“If you say so!”

“But, hey, we’re glad you’re here now,” Dave said, slapping a hand down on John’s back. “You can still get in on this historical ironic pranking event. Wanna help us mount this thing to the wall before Bro gets back?”

John glanced between Jane and Dave and bit down a laugh. “Okay, fine.”


	7. Aradia/Feferi, cave mermaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: If you're still taking prompts, could you write some Arafef ? They're my N°1 fempair in Homestuck but sadly, they don't get a lot of attention, so that'd be really nice of you !

The rocky outcrops made descending into the cavern easier but by no means safe. Aradia picked her footing carefully, testing each foothold before easing her weight down. Pebbles dislodged and fell to the darkness below her with echoing clinks, and the dim flashlight affixed to her helmet only illuminated a fraction of their fall. Her messenger bag swung lightly against her thigh.

She knew it was a bad idea to go adventuring into such dangerous terrain alone, but her closest friends were either busy or unwilling to accompany her. She had been itching to explore the deep network of caves in the forest for ages. She couldn’t stand to wait anymore. Besides, she was being careful, and she had a first aid kit stashed away in her bag. As long as she took her time and thought things through, everything would be fine.

She picked a path to a small landing below her. The cavern was quiet save for the steady sound of running water, perhaps from a small underground stream of sorts. Aradia removed her journal and a brighter flashlight from her bag and wrote down the observation. With both flashlights, she leaned over the side of landing to see what she could make out below her.

The passage seemed to grow more uneven as it snaked into the belly of the earth, which was good news. It would make her descent easier. Aradia stashed her tools away and turned to lower herself from the landing, hugging the rock until she could find the best foothold. Her fingers gripped the moist rock as she felt her way down. Just as she was preparing to transfer her weight, the stone beneath her fingers cracked and splintered, and she began to fall backwards. She scrambled for another hold, her remaining grip straining with the effort of holding her steady, but the slick surface of the rock betrayed her. She dropped several feet and slammed into a sloping outcrop, which rolled her downwards into the darkness. Another small drop left her unconscious.

Aradia slowly came to consciousness laying on her back on a flat, smooth surface. A soft light surrounded her, providing just enough light to see by. Above the sound of rippling water was a rustling of fabric and the distinct noise of something rummaging through objects of various textures. Aradia turned towards the noise, groaning when a sudden throb of pain shot through her head.

“Careful!” someone said, the word marked by a distinct but unidentifiable accent. Aradia opened her eyes a little wider and looked around. She froze when she saw who was sharing the space with her.

A woman was leaning out of the water, all sleek skin and flowing hair. Gliding in uniform lines down her form were glowing freckles, illuminating her body from her face down into the pool. She bore magnificent gills along the sides of her neck and torso. Aradia gaped at her, and she smiled.

“You shore did fall a ways!” she said with her strange accent. “I wouldn’t move if I were you. Unless you want to tell me what to do with this? I can patch you up!” She gestured to the first aid kit, which rested open by Aradia’s bag, mostly soaked. Aradia glanced from her to the first aid kit back to her. “I’m Feferi, by the way,” she added.

“Yeah, okay,” she said slowly. “Am I bleeding?”

Feferi leaned out of the pool and inspected Aradia’s head, touching her chin gently when she needed to turn it. Her fingers were smooth and cool. Aradia kept her eyes on her, inspecting her more closely. “Nope!” Feferi finally said, splashing back into the water.

“I think we’re good, then,” Aradia said. “Maybe my helmet helped…where is it?”

“Oh, this?” Feferi asked, fetching the battered helmet. The lightbulb had been shattered. “This is for your head, right?” She put it on her head, and it balanced on two prong-like horns emerging from her hair. Aradia smiled.

“Yeah, that’s right,” she said. “But I don’t think it was made for you.”

“Human things usually aren’t,” Feferi replied, removing the helmet.

“So you aren’t human?”

“We’ve got a smart one here! What gave it away?”

Aradia laughed. “Maybe the gills.”

Feferi returned the laugh with a strange, wet giggle of her own. “So what’s a human doing so far down here?” she asked.

“Falling, mostly.”

Feferi laughed again. “I like you! Usually, people freak out and try to krill me.”

“Maybe it’s the concussion,” Aradia said. Feferi dissolved into a fit of laughter, and without warning, she dived into the pool and exploded through the surface soaking wet.

“Sorry,” she said, “it gets too dry out here. How are you going to get out?”

Aradia looked up into the dark, twisting hole above her. The slightest glint of light was visible, but it was a far way away. “Climb, probably,” she said.

“Good luck with that!” Feferi said with a hint of sarcasm. “I wish I could lend a fin, but climbing isn’t my fishschtick.”

Aradia laughed and slowly sat up, despite the pounding in her head. She groaned. “I think I’ll have to stay down here for a while, though,” she said.

“I can keep you company, if you want,” Feferi offered.

“That would be nice. Actually…” She reached inside her bag and pulled out her journal. “Do you mind if I sketch you?”

Feferi’s smile broadened into a wide grin. “Of course you can! No one’s offered before.” She shimmied out of the pool and leaned into a pose.

“You seem like you’ve been waiting for someone to ask,” Aradia said as she got her pencil.

“Maybe,” Feferi replied coyly. “We don’t have much paper down here.”

“Are you trapped in this cave?” Aradia asked, sketching an outline.

“No, there are ways out,” Feferi said. “I can travel to all sorts of places! It’s just bright out there in the daytime.”

“That makes sense.”

“Oh, but hey! I’ve never had a human frond before. Do you think we could meet somewhere on the surface?”

The excitement in her voice took Aradia aback, and she found herself attracted to the idea. “Sure,” she said. “Where do you usually hang out?”

“At the lake by the village! Calliope Lake!” She was so excited that she broke her pose, but Aradia was secretly grateful for the more natural posture. “But only at night.”

“I know where that is,” Aradia said. “And I’d be happy to meet you there!”


	8. Various, crime shinanigans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I was minding my own business when I saw this girl pull a knife on you so I panicked and threw my prostetic leg at her and kind of kocked her out, now there is this big sweaty guy and this girl who seems to be your friends putting me in a van while I can hear you cackling, also can I please get my prostetic back? And are those police sirens?" AU, with Tavros, Terezi, Equius and Nepeta

You hate walking home alone this late at night. Your neighborhood isn’t the safest in the city, by any means, and you’re not exactly the best prepared to fight anyone for any reason. At all. But when things get backed up at work, you really don’t have much of a choice. You just wish you could walk a little faster.

You’re only two blocks from your apartment, and you round the corner, hoping to find the street empty. It’s not. Two women are standing several meters from you, one with her back to you and the other leaning against the run-down tenement next to the sidewalk. You recognize her as the blind girl who lives in the apartment complex next to yours. You offered to help her carry her groceries inside once, and she laughed in your face. You just thought it might be difficult to carry all those bags and use her walking cane at the same time, but you guess she knows her way around well enough to manage. You haven’t bothered her since. The other girl, though…you think you’ve seen her around once or twice, but you don’t know who she is. She’s dressed like a punk, all chains and fishnet and ripped denim. She has one sleeve rolled up her shoulder where her arm should have been. You can’t see her face, but you can tell she’s bad news. You stop walking.

You don’t know what they’re talking about, but you’re not sure you want to know. You hang back and linger by the curb. Should you go around the block, maybe? Should…just cross the street and keep walking? But right when you’re making up your mind, the girl nearest to you hisses something that sounds angry and dangerous, and your attention shoots to her. The blind girl replies with a shrug, but to your horror, the punk reaches back and pulls a knife from her back pocket. You know the blind girl won’t see it coming. You’re about to see someone get stabbed, and you have no idea what to do. You see the glint of metal in the orange streetlight. Without time to think, you hop out of your prosthetic leg and throw it as hard as you can. It hits your target in the back of the head with a dull thud.

She crumbles to the ground. And doesn’t move. “Oh my god,” you say, hopping over. She seems unconscious. But…that’s okay, right? Since she had a knife? That gives you enough time to…what, escape? You look up at the other girl, who’s staring in your direction with her eyebrows arched in surprise. Does she know what’s happening? You suddenly realize that she may think you’ve assaulted her conversation partner for no reason. “Sorry, uh…she had a knife,” you say. You sound stupid. This whole situation is stupid. But, to your surprise, she cackles out a laugh.

“Not what I had in mind, but I’ll take it,” she say. You don’t know what that means. Before you can ask, she turns and puts her fingers to her lips to produce a shrill whistle. Up the road, a car starts, and an old van careens out of an alleyway. The girl bends down and picks up your leg.

“Uh,” you say as the van screeches to a halt near you. A big, sweaty man jumps out the back with his fists up, but he hesitates when he sees the punk girl unconscious on the ground. The blind girl motions in your direction and throws your leg into the van. “Grab him,” she says.

“Wait, what–” Before you can properly react, the man has you by the shirt and throws you bodily into the van, pushing you aside so he can clamber in after you. The doors close. The van screeches away from the curb, bouncing all of you around unceremoniously. “Wait! What are you doing?” you yelp as the driver takes a hard turn.

“Who’s he?” the driver asks. Another girl, petite and with a shrill, cutesy voice. She’s wearing a blue hat with cat ears.

“A neighbor,” the blind girl says. “I guess he saw the knife and intervened.”

She remembers you? “Terezi,” the sweaty man says before you can get a word in, “need I say that bringing him along is a terrible idea? We must stick with the plan.”

“Well, if we don’t take him with us, they’re bound to get their hands on him. How long do you think it’ll take them to get a car after us?”

“Not before the police–” the sweaty man begins, but a huge bump in the road sends you all flying. You land painfully on your back. “Nepeta!” he shouts. “Drive with more care! Please.”

“Sorry!” she calls back sheepishly.

“Can I just, uh, ask why you’ve kidnapped me, if that’s okay,” you finally manage. The sweaty man looks at Terezi.

“You can ask,” she says with a cackle. “But that doesn’t mean we’ll answer.”

“I think we should tell him,” Nepeta says from the front seat. “It’s not very nice to kidnap someone without telling them why!”

“I strongly disagree,” the sweaty man says. “We can’t risk anything by explaining our intentions to a stanger.”

“Then why don’t you deal with him, Equius!”

“It wasn’t my idea to bring him.”

“Listen up,” Terezi says, prodding you with her walking cane. “You got mixed up in something big. If you promise to do exactly as we say and not ask any questions, we’ll keep you around until everything dies down.”

You glance between her and Equius, whose frown makes you nervous. “Uh…” you say, uncertain and not a little overwhelmed, “if I don’t stay with you, then…what will happen to me?”

“Let’s just say that life as you know it has completely changed forever and you may not find your apartment as you left it,” Terezi answers with a sharp smile. Your stomach drops. You don’t really have a response to that. You’re too bewildered to even begin to understand the implications of the statement. What choice do you have?

“Uh, okay,” you say. Equius’s frown hardens.

“I hope you know the import of this decision,” he says to Terezi.

“Don’t worry. I always know,” she says, and she lets out a biting laugh.


	9. Jane/Tavros, dancers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the fic prompt- Jane is a dancer who can't land a part because she is "too big," so she takes over the family bakery. Tavros is also a dancer who was forced into retirement because of an accident, but he remembers what it feels like to fly. They meet and find a way to live their passion, with or without an audience.

You only care on principle. Because, really, it’s just ridiculous that the industry is so blindly superficial! Your form is about as good as it gets, definitely at the top of your class, and you have an eye for detail only a dedicated skeptic and detective fanatic such as yourself can attain. And you know how to bring life to the show! Even your instructor said as much. Your dad says so as well, but he’s always full of supportive words. You do appreciate that.

You don’t hate your body. You never have, and you never will. You’re a beautiful woman, with curves worthy of envy. It always struck you as rather disingenuous, all these individual women with their own personal spirit and loveliness, forced to fit into a mold. Expected to strive for the standard set by hundreds of ballerinas of the past. Where is the originality? Why can’t a ballerina shine for all her unique traits while she performs? But you realize you’re only scratching the surface of the problem. Being “too big” doesn’t just have to do with ballet. It’s a social problem, and you know it. And that’s what really boils your blood!

Lucky for you, you’ve always been gifted with multiple talents. Your baking skills are off the charts, and your business acumen is formidable as well. If you’re honest with yourself, you always knew this would be the outcome. You weren’t resentful when you finally decided to quit dancing and take over the family bakery. You love baking. You have big plans to expand the business into a chain franchise, which you have no doubt you’ll also love doing. But you love dancing. You love love love dancing. And for all the reasons you could have had to give it up, this one stings the most.

The old, tired thought drifts through the fog of your brain as you open up shop in the morning. You’ve been up for a while, baking and setting up. Everything in your bakery is fresh every morning, which is a point of pride for you. Still, it’s not easy waking up so early! You’re getting used to it, but you wish your mind wouldn’t wander as much in the cold, isolated hours before dawn. You suppress a yawn and take your place behind the counter, shaking the thoughts away. Time to be positive and perky! Or something.

Your first customer comes in ten minutes later, and the bell above the door snaps you out of the doze you had fallen into. You take a second to orient yourself. You don’t really come to until you hear your name.

“Oh, hi, Jane!” 

You blink and finally recognize the man in front of you. Tavros Nitram, a boy from your old dance studio. Well, not a boy so much anymore. He’s some years younger than you are, but you can see he’s grown since you last saw him. He was a petite boy, but his shoulders have broadened a bit and he’s taller than you remember. He grins and holds his hand up in greeting. Although you never knew him well, you did always admire his smile. 

“Hello there! Long time, no see,” you say, finally remembering your manners.

“I had no idea that this is where you’re working now,” he says. “I haven’t heard much about you since you left.”

“Yes, well, it’s a family business,” you say, suddenly feeling rather self-conscious. From ballet to bakery…not exactly flattering. You change the subject. “How are things at the studio?”

To your surprise, the question takes him aback. “Oh, uh, I haven’t been,” he says, and it’s your turn to be taken aback. 

“You quit?” you ask. If you remember right, he had a lot of promise. And he was passionate, too. Anyone who watched him dance could see that. He loved it at least as much as you did, if not more. Why would he quit?

He stumbles over his words. “No–I mean, kind of, I guess, but, uh…” Several shades of confusion and discomfort pass across his face before he finally understands. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. I guess you wouldn’t have heard, since you’ve been gone for a while, and weren’t as well acquainted with my peers, so…” He stumbles to a stop, muddled and still plenty uncomfortable. He clears his throat. “I was an in an accident, that, uh…made it difficult for me to continue, so I’m working now, like you are, except at the animal shelter outside of town.”

“An accident?” you repeat with shock. Sympathy floods through you. “Oh, goodness, I’m sorry to hear that! I hope it wasn’t too bad? Could you…after some recovery…?”

He sighs and takes a step back, lifting the leg of his pants to reveal a prosthetic calf. You gasp. “It was pretty serious, the accident,” he says, stepping back up to the counter, “but, um, at least it’s not as bad as it could have been, all things considered.”

“Oh, Tavros, I’m so sorry,” you say, and you are. He had such a promising future. He could have been a professional danseur. To think of that all falling apart so suddenly…at least you suspected your fate for a while before you had to face it, and you can still dance on your own. You still have your body, even if others think it’s flawed.

“It’s okay, mostly,” he says with a shrug and a small smile. “I came to accept it, as a thing that’s not going to change, after some time and, uh, what you might call soul-searching. And I like my job, working with the animals. I’m pretty good at it.”

You don’t want to pry. Meddling is rude. But your curiosity is killing you, and you would be lying if you said you weren’t feeling some sort of odd, disjointed kinship with him. You know what it feels like to give it up. “Can you still dance at all?” you venture. “Is it just one leg, or both?”

“It’s just the one leg,” he says, and you’re relieved that he doesn’t seem to mind you asking. “And, about the dancing, I haven’t really tried much to test my abilities, but I think that, for a lot of ballet, it would be impossible, especially in terms of leaping and lifting girls. I don’t know if some modern dance or maybe jazz would still be accessible to me, or if modifications could make them more accessible if they aren’t.”

“You haven’t tried?” you ask. “Tavros, don’t tell me you left the studio without giving it a good go at working it out?”

“Uh, well,” and he looks uncomfortable again. Maybe a little sad. “After the accident, I, um, lost a lot of confidence, I guess you could say, because the recovery time was long, and I lost a lot of muscle and balance, and it was difficult to become coordinated again, so…yeah, I sort of left, mostly without trying, because it seemed like it was never going to be the same way as it was again. And anyway, I don’t think it’s possible for me to get a job as a dancer in any way, being disabled now, so I don’t think I could justify the time and expense of continuing to go.”

You gape at him. Oh, how your heart hurts. “But you loved it! Who cares if you can’t find a job?”

He looks at you quizzically. “But, uh, you loved it, too, and you still left for essentially the same reason.”

You shut your mouth. The words seep into you like ice. Your mind scrambles for an excuse to justify your situation, because you and he are so different in so many ways–he’s still lean and attractive, with his kind-hearted grin and honest eyes, while you…you don’t look like a dancer. And you’re fine with your bakery. You’re good at baking, good at business, good at a lot of things, so you’re fine with whatever. But he loved it in a special way. You saw how he loved it. “Tavros,” you say, leaning over the counter earnestly, “you can’t let yourself give up that easily. Don’t stop just because you’re afraid of what other people might think of you, or because the industry is such a drag on people who don’t fit the mold.”

He stares into your eyes, soaking in your fierce and maybe somewhat intimidating candor. He bites his lip. “Uh…were you…were you afraid of all that, too?”

“What?”

“It’s just…the way you’re talking right now, and also given that you also did what I did, but for different reasons, I was wondering if you understand the feeling of maybe not being the way you should be, or disappointing people, or feeling disappointed. Like you can’t be a dancer because of how you are.”

You open your mouth and close it, trying to ignore the discomfort welling in your chest. “Well,” you say, and you sigh. “Maybe. Maybe yes, I suppose I understand. But it’s different for me.”

“How?”

You know he’s asking because he’s interested, or maybe because he wants to hear someone else say they know what he’s feeling. Maybe he feels alone. You don’t want him to feel that way, but…you also don’t want to talk about it. “I’m just…you know how it is with bigger girls and dancing. We all know what the industry thinks of us. It’s different than an accident, in that we…maybe know better than to get our hopes up in the first place.”

His eyebrows pull up in a way that’s both surprised and sympathetic. “Wow,” he says, “that sounds sad and not at all fair.”

You shrug. “It’s not fair, but that’s life sometimes.”

He examines your face for a second. “I’m inclined to believe that maybe, you also need to hear the things you’re saying, about not giving up or allowing sad thoughts to make you feel bad, but for yourself,” he says. You balk, standing straight.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say, and you cross your arms. But, to your dismay, his eyes grow clearer, as though he’s putting pieces together and seeing you in an entirely new way.

“If it makes you feel better, I always loved to watch you dance,” he says, and now he’s the one leaning over the counter. “I always thought you were one of our best dancers.”

“Well, I was,” you say without any cockiness. “But there are a lot of things that matter just as much as skill. To the industry.”

“Oh, but skill is by far the most important, at least in my opinion,” he says. “And grace, and passion, and soul, which I think is why you were always so good.”

Your cheeks grow warm. “Speak for yourself!” you say. “You had all of those traits just as much as I did. You could probably use them to find a new style that fits for you, and you could shine just the same as you used to!”

“And, I believe that in your own case, this advice is also relevant, and you should follow it as well.”

“I can’t waste my time anymore. I have a business to run.” You sweep your arm open to gesture at the bakery, which you do love. You’re not lying. You do have a business to run.

“And I, too, have a job now, that requires my attention, in order to earn an income,” he says. “But, um…I’m starting to think that, maybe these things we have, which function as our main responsibilities, may not need to be the only things in our lives, or to function as our only form of self-fulfillment.”

His eyes are bright, the way they would be after he just finished a routine. You drop your arms despite yourself. “Go on,” you say.

“Uh, well, that’s all I had to say on the matter, just then, but I do think that running a bakery doesn’t mean you can never dance.” He draws back a little, sheepishly, but his eyes still glitter. Like he’s beginning to understand something life-changing. And so are you.

“Tavros, if I can still dance even though I’m a big girl running a demanding business, you can still dance even though you have a prosthetic leg and a job at an animal shelter. And I don’t want to hear any excuses about self-confidence or lack of coordination! To hell with all that! In fact…” And you pause. Are you sure you want to say what you think you want to say? As if in response, your heart flutters. You haven’t felt this warm and enlivened in a long while. That’s enough for you. “In fact, I’d like to be your dance partner. We can find something that works for you, and doggone it, we can make it beautiful to boot!”

His face goes blank for a split second, and he lights up, almost glowing with excitement. “Yes, okay,” he agrees immediately. “Yeah, I’d love to be your dance partner, as long as you’re comfortable taking things slowly with me, to adjust to my new limitations.”

“We’ll make your limitations into strengths,” you declare. “From this point forward, we’re going to focus on the positives, no ifs or buts!”

“Yes, okay!” he repeats, and you feel radiant. Your whole bakery feels radiant. Maybe because the sun is getting higher.

“Oh, shoot! By the by, what did you want to order?” you ask, and he laughs.


End file.
